"angina" poems
Reaching back,
Back to that fork
In the road
Where irreversible consequence
Hid like angina
In a dunhill bubble
And you veered left,
Smitten by the decadence of mint
And mythical circles
Blown with liberal disdain
From a camel's ****
You followed the green line
Rippling like waves
Of vintage wine
Through gomorrah
Caution blown
As a midsummers gale
Between tarred lips,
Your ship sailed
The straits of cool
From bogart to newport
If dean only knew
Nat the king
Could still be singing
Nature boy on the square,
Live
He might have spurned his spyder
And lucky strikes
For a slice of life
Beyond 24
And you might have
Veered right
At that fork in the road,
Swapping scarred consequence,
Tarred lips,
And angina
For the whole pie
~ P
(#FromTheCamelsButt)
12/24/2014
Dec 24, 2014
Dec 24, 2014 at 10:04 PM UTC
The patterns
of rainfall and afforestation,
the veins of village streams—
I colored them in
as I saw fit.
My beloved spiders
wove a second pattern
on top,
which I approved
before leaving.
Günter Eich (1907–1972) was a noted German poet and radio dramatist who won the Georg Büchner Preis in 1959. His translator, Michael Hofmann, is a poet and German translator; his versions of Eich will be out soon in book form in Angina Days: Selected Poems of Günter Eich (Princeton).
Jun 30, 2014
Jun 30, 2014 at 11:25 AM UTC
plot out distances between freckles
and count the amount of hairs;
in a beauteous analysis
a cold witnessing
of)a featured lifeless gaze
projected onto windows
refracted in time with the pounding
from lost soulless ghouls
in a dank puddled basement
as we stare through keyholes
the length of life waits to rescind
to wash up on the shoreline
anew, once refreshed
with Angina on
wading in cyclic waves
in deposits of reveries
stale orangeade sonatas
and dull area tirades
the purpose
economized
every axiom
americanized
and as your atoms become depersonalized
tension is materialized, in ornate ivory
shattered brass instruments rusted by
novels written to god
in a
fractured light
and range
cramped in a curtailed distance
a brickwall deadend universe
gnashing with frustration
****** yawns of futility
closed viaducts
and vacant lots
deafened eyes, grey
glimmering in retort
to their own expression
blind sight was squandered by the snapback, of all the
strings of the orchestra as they were simultaneously snipped
by sharp prying eyes, listening to the mixing of paint
to smell the music, its arms limp, vivid
wishing to pull you back (in hindsight)
with dreaded, deadened incantations
a dithyrambic liturgy to the drunken thoughtless night
of slurred litanies and unappeasable, irascible deities
lonely and immaculate, all-powerless and deft
in irksome quarrels and arguments
glossed over by the fine print of another
exalting the vainglorious self-inscribed paragons
and revelling every inadmissible mistake
gazing past to a solo star
dumbstruck and dead
from an evaluation
and dehydration
dying to know
forget it.
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 12:03 AM UTC
Moon-bird alike, my life, I can't fathom
Against age ..wings flapped..under anthelia
Red knots flew west, yet... a suffer
Yarning a long journey east, here's a fairy
A blue-eyed dove cooed away angina
Made wrecks stand...florets re-blossom!
May 3, 2017
May 3, 2017 at 12:53 PM UTC
the caffeine and preservatives served me ill
and now the air is clear enough to hear
an echo of those angina beats
the rhythm of compressed time
where mild maturity becomes entwined
in curious calamity,
cut down, boxed up,
for all to see the choke hold
slip the sterling buckle
its teeth around your stubbled throat
and nylon stained constricted waste the
filthy lack of alibi
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 8:20 AM UTC
I catalog events with a subtle, ulterior pretense
Describing the notorious infamy in all the events
And anything characterized, inspiring, and bold
Makes a story unfold in the real time it's told
I am snowblind and need defibrillation to wake up
Either my heart turned cold or has simply had enough
The ferry fan dreamboat has only so inadequately found
That as I feel my orienting response record the time down
It is not truly me who was looking around
Though I can pinpoint the exact moment that I drowned
The only lingering product of me absolutely remaining
Is the aftermath of my angina so ever restraining
Never complaining until the sound of the trigger
Then I'll be adamant to describe that noise with vigor
Though rigorous it may be, I will try, I might even with some tact
And let you in one last time presenting only fact.
I stepped away and left this place while presently in line
The sentence was one more time for the last time
And then you said goodbye
I was watching all the while a vapor on the scene
And I felt myself lose oxygen with no production in my spleen
My blood does not perfuse in that bilateral moment of blame
How can I let asystole clamp and constrict my cowed red vein?
How could I dilate the cause of my shame?
How could I love my life in the rain?
The simple reason I was experiencing tinitus...
I found out all connections were lies
Like a manufactured virus
Love was a prescription with doses written in ink
With no distinction and no response I could not think
With no recompense or recognition I felt my larynx shrink
I was only dumbfounded so I took to my reflexes
Handpicking a numb tendency to fill my recesses
But it only drains you and me and leaves a hole behind
I'm nowhere near magical so it's power cannot rewind
If so inclined I'll tap my spine and steer it all back
But I don't feel you anymore
Only this heart attack
Feb 21, 2016
Feb 21, 2016 at 1:40 PM UTC
Us/you/I swaying on the spiralling
star-smudged staircase
that leads to the evanescent
crescendo of the sun.
Synchronously//Contemporaneously,
the moon subsisting in her shadow,
spills ashen white light ray
andlimn her initials,
across the somber sky.
Sep 25, 2015
Sep 25, 2015 at 11:38 PM UTC
plot out distances between freckles
and count the amount of hairs;
in a beauteous analysis
a cold witnessing
of)a featured lifeless gaze
projected onto windows
refracted in time with the pounding
from lost soulless ghouls
in a dank puddled basement
as we stare through keyholes
the length of life waits to rescind
to wash up on the shoreline
anew, once refreshed
with Angina on
wading in cyclic waves
in deposits of reveries
stale orangeade sonatas
and dull area tirades
the purpose
economized
every axiom
americanized
and as your atoms become depersonalized
tension is materialized, in ornate ivory
shattered brass instruments rusted by
novels written to god
in a
fractured light
and range
cramped in a curtailed distance
a brickwall deadend universe
gnashing with frustration
****** yawns of futility
closed viaducts
and vacant lots
deafened eyes, grey
glimmering in retort
to their own expression
blind sight was squandered by the snapback, of all the
strings of the orchestra as they were simultaneously snipped
by sharp prying eyes, listening to the mixing of paint
to smell the music, its arms limp, vivid
wishing to pull you back (in hindsight)
with dreaded, deadened incantations
a dithyrambic liturgy to the drunken thoughtless night
of slurred litanies and unappeasable, irascible deities
lonely and immaculate, all-powerless and deft
in irksome quarrels and arguments
glossed over by the fine print of another
exalting the vainglorious self-inscribed paragons
and revelling every inadmissible mistake
gazing past to a solo star
dumbstruck and dead
from an evaluation
and dehydration
dying to know
forget it.
Mar 19, 2016
Mar 19, 2016 at 4:19 PM UTC
Going through life
With no lights on.
Staring at the nebulous,
Hazy events pass by.
Waving good bye to the
Monotonous days, wasted
Time means nothing
When you sleep through it
Like looing at the world
Through smudged glasses.
I always day sleep,
Blocking out my life.
Living as if nothing ever happens
And Sometimes believing it too.
If only to cut lose the weight
Of my chronic heart pains,
The angina from the sad state
That this world is now in.
Sep 20, 2010
Sep 20, 2010 at 11:08 AM UTC
by James Bruce
You’re the top!
You’re the top!
You’re a Millard Filmore,
You’re the top!
You’re the Girls of Gilmore,
You’re lucidity’s not Huckabee’s weird views,
You’re an immigrator,
A great debator,
You’re not Ted Cruz!
You’re the style,
Of a Ronald Reagan,
You’re the smile of a foxxy Megyn,
Were you Hillary, you’d be pilloried, and flop!
But if Donald, Ailes’s the bottom, you’re the top!
You’re the top!
You’re the Wall of China,
You’re the top!
You’re acute angina,
You’re hyperbole that’s a felony in Queens,
You’re Rand Paul’s mama,
Barack Obama,
You’re full of beans!
You’re the star,
Of the G.O.P. camp,
You’re a jam on a Christie bridge ramp,
I’m a crippling loan, a Roger Stone, a flop!
But if baby, Jeb’s sunk lower, you’re the top!
You’re the top!
You’re a well-coiffed dandy,
You’re the top!
Your hair’s cotton candy,
You’re assets vast that cast a glow of Trumpf
You’re a Carly visage,
The Greenwich Village,
You’re Friedrich Drumpf!
You’re demure,
You’re a friend of pollsters,
You’re the spur on some heels with holsters
I’m not fit to race, too commonplace, a sop!
But if Donald, I’m rock bottom, you’re the top!
Oct 1, 2016
Oct 1, 2016 at 11:42 AM UTC
i'm a modern girl
and i say like it's not a bad word
it's a tag society has thrown at me
for me to feel guilty and an antagonist
so i own up to this word
with pride and prejudice
oh! now it pinches you and makes you want to call me
shameless and rude.
for all i care,
i'm a modern girl
and i say it like it's not a bad word
i wear short skirts, i dye my hair,
i ride a bike without a hint of despair,
i own tattoos and piercings in the places on my body
that will give you a heart ache
much worse than an angina pectoris.
hello, im a modern girl
and i say it again like it's not a bad word.
it's high time shame game took a turn,
your judgemental eyes shutter down with acceptance
and for gossiping to burn
because i'm just a girl
living the life i like
call it modern, call it indie
atleast i know it's not a LIE.
Mar 17, 2018
Mar 17, 2018 at 11:59 AM UTC
There was a beautiful lady in China
no, not North, or South Carolina
prolific of men
over, and over again
the cause of her death, from angina
Jan 30, 2017
Jan 30, 2017 at 10:57 AM UTC
It's futile you know.
A never ending battle to fight your heart and the feelings it keeps.
It's not your heart that's in control.
It's a mere electric pump.
It has four chambers.
The secrets it keeps are absolutely none.
It stores no emotion nor feelings of pain.
Unless of course it's broken, but it's not destroyed by love and pain.
It may complain a bit if it's oxygen supply is breached, a touch of angina.
Maybe an infarct.
Perhaps it'll die.
There is no true love, not in the hearts of women or fellows.
Love is just a state of mind.
A cocktail of emotions and several crazy notions.
(C) LIVVI
Nov 8, 2014
Nov 8, 2014 at 11:47 AM UTC
A Non-Event, Not Even In The Papers
Big women are rare.
I saw one two days ago.
She was standing tall
asking a doctor
what the hell he was doing.
The man said he was
checking her pulse.
There? she said. He said
he wanted to make sure
blood was pulsing
through her angina.
I can tell you’re no doctor.
You aren’t even a nurse.
He said sorry and left.
She went to tell a nurse
what had happened.
The nurse did not laugh.
A doctor followed up
and did not laugh either.
The doctor prescribed
2 kinds of pills. The nurse
stated to the lady that her
pulse was fine. The woman
got dressed, and went
and had lunch. She met
her Mom who was
unfortunately in town.
Never told her a thing.
Jul 8, 2015
Jul 8, 2015 at 8:12 PM UTC